


Howl

by MangoMartini



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Blow Jobs, Bullying, First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, M/M, Master/Pet, mentions of violence against animals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 10:15:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4621497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MangoMartini/pseuds/MangoMartini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It happened so fast that Hannibal was glad he did not miss it, because he almost did.</p><p>But he did see this boy. This boy with the unruly, curly brown hair at the back of the classroom, slumped in his desk and twirling a chewed-on pencil in his right hand. The boy had on a black shirt with a faded design on it, thick round glasses, and what looked to be a black leather dog collar. </p><p>This was going to be interesting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Howl

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CrystallineInk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrystallineInk/gifts).



"We have a new student today, class. His name is Hannibal Lecter."

Hannibal surveyed the homeroom class, taking in the unfamiliar faces. He knew he would most likely not talk to any of these people ever again, but it was always important to have a cursory idea of who was around him at all times.

The teacher went on about how it was important to be nice to new students and other comments like that, and Hannibal half tuned her out as his eyes made their way to the back of the room. The students, like this teacher, were boring, as boring as school was mandatory. A mandatory experience that Hannibal planned to use as a training ground for his human suit and—

 _Oh, hello_.

It happened so fast that Hannibal was glad he did not miss it, because he almost did.

But he did see this boy. This boy with the unruly, curly brown hair at the back of the classroom, slumped in his desk and twirling a chewed-on pencil in his right hand. The boy had on a black shirt with a faded design on it, thick round glasses, and what looked to be a black leather dog collar. 

The teacher spoke to him again. "Hannibal," the teacher asked, smiling in a way that told Hannibal she often forgot she was teaching eleventh grade, and not second grade, "Would you like to tell the class something about yourself?"

"No," was all Hannibal said, softly yet firmly. He did not look back at the teacher, but instead kept his eyes on the boy with the collar, who to Hannibal's delight stifled a laugh at the curt remark by nearly shoving his hand into his mouth.

This was going to be interesting.

 

Hannibal tracked the boy down at lunch.

It wasn’t hard—he was sitting alone, head down, picking at a bag of chips while writing in a composition book with a red pen. It made sense; from what Hannibal had seen after just half a day here, this was not exactly the sort of school to treat students in black and dog collars civilly.

Then again, Hannibal himself had already received the same sort of treatment, and his wardrobe was decidedly less canine. He knew, objectively, that his appearance was not the sort of appearance that looked like it could have lunch with this boy: his meticulously brushed blonde hair, his polished brown shoes, his sweater vest and tie. But he didn’t let that stop him.

"Hello," Hannibal said as he sat down across from the boy, repeating the same word he had thought earlier.

Hannibal inhaled deeply through his nose. Other than the plebeian smells of the high school cafeteria--cheap cleaning products with unwashed bodies and barely edible school food--there were the smells that had to be coming from this boy: lavender laundry detergent, cigarette smoke, and the pungent smell of actual dogs. There was something else there as well, Hannibal was certain, but he would have to be closer to tell what it was. And he wanted to be closer. 

"What are you doing?" the boy asked, barely looking up from his notebook. He hunched up his shoulders, drawing his arms in closer to his body like he was afraid he might be attacked. He looked so much like a scared dog; it made the collar all the more fitting.

Hannibal smiled at the boy, doing his best to not let it show that he was thinking about how that dog collar would look attached to a leash, or that he had just mentally catalogued how he smelled. Despite all the work he still had to do, Hannibal knew those thoughts were distinctly not normal. "Eating lunch," Hannibal said instead, as he began unpacking the lunch he had prepared for himself from its green lunch container. Lunch today was a bottle of water, green beans, an apple, and a sandwich he was going to claim was chicken if anyone asked.

The boy barely moved, but he did lift his head up higher. "Your accent is strange."

"Lithuanian," Hannibal replied, taking the top off the container of green beans and getting out his fork. He turned the remark over in his head once, then again, and decided it was not rude. A stray dog, he reasoned, did not know any better. Rudeness must be intentional. "My name is Hannibal."

"I remember," the boy said, sitting up now just enough to close his notebook. He had not touched his sad excuse for a meal since Hannibal sat down. "You were introduced this morning in my homeroom." There was a pause. "I'm Will. Will Graham."

Hannibal was in the middle of chewing a mouthful of green beans, but still managed to smile. Will, he thought, may be a stray, but he was not a feral dog. Hannibal knew feral dogs. Will, on the other hand, seemed more like a house pet turned out on the streets. "It's very nice to meet you, Will."

There was a small silence. Hannibal kept eating his lunch, and Will watched. Around them the chaotic din of the cafeteria clamored on, as the entire lunch room seem determined to ignore both of them. It was perfect. 

"That's a dog's collar," Hannibal said, as he undid the plastic wrap around his sandwich. It was perhaps a bit early to ask about it, but they had been sitting across from each other for just about eight minutes now, and lunch was a third of the way over. Hannibal needed more information. 

Predictably, Will's hand went up to touch the collar as soon as Hannibal commented on it. People always did that. Hannibal watched as Will looked everywhere but at Hannibal, his eyes eventually settling on his notebook. "It's a long story."

"Another time, then." Hannibal checked his wristwatch. "We only have seventeen minutes left in lunch, and I like to give my meals my full attention." To emphasize the point, he slowly took a bite of his sandwich.

The rest of the meal was passed in silence.

 

"What's this?" Will asked the next day, after Hannibal sat across from him and handed him a sandwich.

Today, Will had on a shirt that bore the image of a cartoonish samurai with orange hair and an impossibly large sword, the same dog collar, and smelled more strongly of cigarettes. Specifically menthol cigarettes, but Hannibal could not determine what brand. Not yet, at least. 

"Roast beef sandwich. I noticed that your lunch yesterday seemed to be a little sparse, and so I took the liberty of making you a sandwich." 

Hannibal had had the plan in mind ever since their lunch yesterday had ended. And he had never had the chance to feed his cooking, his experiments, to anyone else. But he so desperately wanted to see Will eat this sandwich, even if he could not tell what it truly was. The deception would be worth it. 

Will looked at the sandwich as if trying to decide if it really was a sandwich, or something else. Like a bomb. For a brief moment, Hannibal had the irrational fear that somehow Will might know what it actually was, what pet Hannibal had actually killed. But after a beat, Will took the sandwich.

"You don't even know me, and you made me a sandwich?" Will asked, as he took off the plastic wrap slowly, as if worried Hannibal would ask for it back. 

"Did I overstep a boundary?"

Will took a bite of the sandwich and looked Hannibal in the eye, albeit only for a second before he looked back down to the yellow plastic tabletop. 

Hannibal mentally prepared responses to whatever Will would say, trying to figure out which ones would sound the most _human_ , trying not to moan at the sight of Will eating a sandwich.

"This is actually really good."

"Were you expecting it not to be?" Hannibal asked, to cover his own glee that Will liked his cooking. He raised an eyebrow and unwrapped his own sandwich.

"I wasn't expecting anything."

And that was the end of their second conversation.

 

Hannibal did not talk to Will any other time but at lunch, because that is how one earns the trust of a stray dog: one must bring food for the animal once a day, at the same time each day. This builds trust.

So Hannibal fed Will each day at lunch, and left him alone the rest of the day. It wasn’t that Hannibal didn’t _watch_ Will—he just did not approach or talk to him. Hannibal watched the back of Will's head in the hallways between classes. He watched as Will walked to history class from French class, stopping once at his locker, with his head down, eyes on the ground, and fingers clutched tightly around the strap of his messenger bag. He watched, from a distance, as Will spent the mornings before classes started sitting in the main hallway, drinking gas station coffee and reading Japanese comic books and lifting his head every few pages to make sure that he was still alone.

He especially liked watching when Will wore the fake dog tail to school. It was a nice addition to Will's normally drab black t shirts and ill-fitting jeans. Hannibal let him spend all of lunch wondering what it would be like if Will had ears to go with his collar and tail, and what Will would look like in just his collar. 

That tail also made watching Will eat the sandwiches Hannibal made for him that much more enjoyable. The dog that Hannibal had turned into what he was calling roast beef had had the same color fur as the tail Will liked to wear on the back belt loop of his jeans.

Of course when watching Will, Hannibal saw other things. He saw the way two older boys with close cropped hair and letterman jackets liked to shove Will against the rows of lockers in the morning. He also saw how another group of boys liked to grab Will’s graphic novels and tear them in half right in front of him. Each time Will, like Hannibal, just watched as it happened.

 

"That's not a sandwich," Will said during lunch Friday.

It was the first thing that had been spoken between them all day. Hannibal had sat down in silence and had begun to unpack his lunch without saying anything. This had been going on for almost two full weeks now, and he was interested in seeing if Will would initiate conversation, to see how much the stray had grown to trust him.

"Quite correct. I thought you might enjoy something different for a change," Hannibal explained, taking the lid off one of the plastic containers and passing it, along with a fork and a paper napkin, to Will. "And I’m out of bread." A lie, but a small one, and it made the sudden appearance of a complicated pasta dish more believable.

Hannibal smiled as Will ate a forkful of lasagna. That bully’s housecat had not been particularly difficult to kill, but the death itself merited a presentation beyond a simple sandwich. He had of course contemplated killing the bully himself. He deserved nothing less for the way he hurt Will. But there had been no good way to do it—no way to get the bully alone, or place large enough to butcher the body, or place to adequately store the rest of him. 

Humans, Hannibal knew, would yield more meat than a common cat or dog, but they would also take more work. It would have to wait until after graduation. 

"I'm not complaining," Will said quickly, half of his container already empty. The sound of the fork scraping the plastic container was a fine concerto in Hannibal’s ears, as was the subsequent praise. "This is delicious. You made this?"

"I did." Hannibal took his own bite of lasagna. Not quite as good as it would have been fresh from the oven, but still good. Perhaps a little heavy on the oregano, but cat, especially this cat, had a distinctly tangy aftertaste that Hannibal had been eager to mask.

There was no more talking after that, just the noise of the lunch room. This was how it usually was—some preliminary remarks, the exchange of food, and then silence between them. Hannibal never pushed it further, content with watching Will eat. 

Had Will actually been a dog, by now Hannibal might have tried to feed him by hand, to test the trust the animal had for him. But as Will was distinctly human, Hannibal thought it best to forgot that step until he came up with a suitable replacement. He did want to test Will’s trust.

"I don't get it," Will said, with three minutes before the end of lunch.

Hannibal, who had been reading ahead in his biology textbook, looked up at Will. "Excuse me?"

Will gestured vaguely with his hand, and Hannibal saw how his nails were bitten down to the quick. "You show up out of the blue, dress like you're going to church, and start bringing me lunch." He pushed his glasses up with one hand so that he could pinch the bridge of his nose, and then adjusted his glasses back into place. "I don't get it," he repeated.

"I see nothing wrong with the way I dress." Hannibal moved his face into a gently confused look, deliberately obtuse. He wanted Will to keep talking.

"It's nice," Will said, though to what Hannibal was not exactly sure. "But that’s not the point. I just feel…I don’t know. Nobody's ever this nice to me. It’s like you're fattening me up to eat me or something."

Now _that_ was an image. To feed Will daily, groom him like a true pet, and then to one day slaughter him and consume him. Hannibal couldn’t help but lick his lips. It certainly was a delicious fantasy. But he knew better than to voice any of that to Will, at least not now. 

"So you don’t trust me,” Hannibal said. It wasn’t a question.

"I don’t know if you've noticed, but I'm not exactly popular around here.” Will shifted in his seat, as if the mention of his bullies would make them appear. He blushed a little on the tips of his ears, the sight of it half-hidden by his unruly hair. 

Someone really needed to brush him, Hannibal thought, vividly imagining himself with a brush in his hand, dragging it through Will’s hair, tugging at Will’s hair as he whimpered from the slight pain. 

Only when Will gave him a look did Hannibal realize that he had not answered him. He pushed his face into what he knew looked like an ashamed face. “Neither am I,” Hannibal said. “But I feel as though we get along well. Would you agree?”

That had Will smiling. “Well you cook for me, so you can’t be that bad.”

Hannibal laughed, unable not to, and luckily Will laughed along with him. 

 

After that first week, Hannibal began to insert himself into other facets of Will’s life. That next week, he _stumbled upon_ Will reading those comic books alone, and coaxed Will into explaining the plot if the series he was reading. The week after it rained, and Hannibal happened to have two umbrellas when Will had none. He was rewarded with getting to see where Will lived, and the week after when he walked Will home he was even invited inside. 

Will’s house smelled like dogs, cigarettes, sour food and Windex. But Will’s room smelled like Will, even though it was haphazardly covered in fishing lures, notebooks, and frayed poster depicting cartoon girls with alarmingly strange proportions. 

“I like it,” Hannibal said, the first time Will allowed Hannibal into his room. According to Will, Hannibal was only able to come in because his father was out of town. Hannibal made a note to pry about that later. Now, though, he had more pressing matters. “The art choice is interesting.”

Will looked at the posters and then down at the cluttered floor. He opened his mouth, shut it, and then opened it again. “They’re, ah, characters from a show I like.”

“I can see a lot to like about these characters,” Hannibal agreed, hoping the remark would push Will. 

“I mean, the characters,” Will began, before trailing off. 

Hannibal knew that moment was a turning point, and when Will looked at him with those big blue eyes, he made the choice to take the first step. “The characters are certainly intriguing,” Hannibal agreed with a nod, “but I don’t think I would cover my room with them. Women aren’t to my,” he paused for a moment to pick the best word, “taste.”

Will, who had been tugging on his dog collar, dropped his hands. He looked as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. “No,” Will said hurriedly, “I like them. I mean, I like the characters. Girls are,” and again Will let his words die down to nothing, and Hannibal got the idea that he had never talked about this before. “Girls aren’t my thing.”

And when Will looked so scared, as if Hannibal might leave or worse, hit him, Hannibal saw the moment and took it. He reached out, past Will flinching, and placed his hand on Will’s shoulder and told him it was okay. 

Will did not bite his hand, or snarl, or anything else a scared dog might do. Instead, Will let Hannibal keep his hand there for as long as Hannibal wanted. They did not talk about it after, not when Will showed Hannibal his collection of replica anime props or when Will talked Hannibal into borrowing a manga series to read. 

 

A month later, and they were still at that stage. Hannibal found himself growing more and more frustrated at the stagnation. Had Will been a real dog, Hannibal would have taken him home by now, been able to claim him. He would be able to watch Will sleep at the foot of his bed, control all of Will’s meals, and pull him around on a leash. 

At the very least, all of Will’s bullies had pets who had mysteriously disappeared and that, along with Hannibal’s ever-growing presence by Will’s side, was enough to keep them from bothering Will. Prey, Hannibal found out, has a knack for seeing through his disguise. 

Will, however, remained perfectly ignorant. 

But that did not assuage the desire Hannibal had to claim Will in any way he could. And when Will came to school in not only his tail and collar but a pair of ears attached to an elastic headband, Hannibal had to act. 

“So,” he said at the start of lunch, after handing Will his meal of beef stroganoff, “the ears.” Perhaps it was uncouth of him to skip any sort of conversational preamble, but Hannibal needed to know more about them. 

Will shoveled a forkful of the stroganoff into his mouth while nodding, swallowing before he spoke. “I, uh, thought you’d say something earlier.” Hannibal had noticed them that morning, when he sat with Will and complained about the quality of coffee Will had been drinking. But he had been too struck by them to comment on them politely, so he had waited. 

“They’re new. And they match your tail.”

“You’re going to think it’s stupid if I try to explain,” Will said, spearing one piece of meat and chewing it slowly. 

Hannibal shook his head. “You want to better portray what you feel on the inside, correct?” 

Will looked at Hannibal with a confirming awe. Of course Hannibal knew. He spent so many of his waking hours contemplating all of Will that there was no way he could not know. He had picked the boy apart in his mind so many times, from so many different angles, that Hannibal felt there was very little about Will that he did not know. 

Under the table, Hannibal moved one of his feet forward, into the space between Will’s, and softly presses his shoe against Will’s. Will looked down at the table as if he can see through it to where Hannibal is touching him slightly, but didn’t move away. He couldn’t, Hannibal knew--he has tamed Will Graham. 

“I still don’t know why you talk to me,” Will said, and it caught Hannibal off guard. He couldn’t tell if Will was being guarded or entirely open. 

“Meet me after school by the back doors,” Hannibal replied. “Maybe then I will be able to properly explain.”

 

Hannibal meant to talk to Will, he really did. But the sight of Will in those ears, the metal ring of the collar glinting in the afternoon sun, and the way the tail swished behind his legs all made the idea of conversation laughable. 

Instead, Hannibal grabbed Will’s hand and led him out behind the school, past the crowds of students hurrying home, to the football stadium bleachers. The area underneath was cool, even if the air had a metallic tang to it, and the ground was soft under Hannibal’s shoes. At the angle they were at, behind the athletic storage area and a small grove of trees, Hannibal doubted anyone could see them. 

He still had Will’s hand in his, and Hannibal used it to pull Will close enough to kiss him. 

It was not an elegant kiss--Hannibal had doubted his first one would be. His mouth met only half of Will’s, and Hannibal had squished his nose against Will’s face. It almost made Hannibal not want to try again; he did not like doing things he was not good at. 

But the noise Will made, the surprised gasp, and the way Will reached out to grab Hannibal by the sweater vest to drag him back in for another kiss quickly changed his mind. 

Hannibal dropped Will’s hand, preferring to wind one arm around Will’s waist and put his other hand on the side of Will’s hand to hold him in place, keep Will where he wanted him. Will’s mouth was wet and warm and tasted faintly of cigarette smoke, a taste Hannibal knew instantly that he would never be able to get enough of. 

“If I had known you’d like the ears this much,” Will said, pulling away from Hannibal’s mouth just far enough to speak, “I would have ordered them a month ago.”

Hannibal filed Will’s words away to be examined later. There was too much other stimuli to deal with now, to process, to investigate. “It’s you,” Hannibal replied, pulling Will in for another kiss, harder this time. Hannibal bit down on Will’s lip, worried it would be too much because he can taste delicious _blood_ , but Will made keening noises so beautiful that Hannibal had to bite him again. 

He pulled his mouth away from Will’s, dropping kisses down Will’s jaw before reaching his neck. Hannibal latched on to the skin there, sucking hard, breaking blood vessels and knowing it will leave a mark. The knowledge that he marked Will along with the way it made Will cling to Hannibal like he’s drowning was enough to make Hannibal moan as well. 

“Mine,” he growled at Will, before kissing him again. Hannibal moved his hand from Will’s jaw to his collar, tugging on it to emphasize his point. Hannibal knew that he was cutting off some of Will’s air supply, but all Hannibal cared about was the breathy whine that Will let out, and the way Will thrust his hips toward Hannibal. 

He kissed Will, dropping his hand down from Will’s wait to his crotch so that Will could thrust against it. It was not that Hannibal wasn’t affected, but he knew better than to rut like an animal. Hannibal left another mark on Will’s neck and ached for the same sort of relief. 

Hannibal wanted to push this. To see how far he could take Will as well as himself. He did not know his limits here, how far he could stretch his human veneer over this situation before it snapped. 

“You’re mine,” Hannibal repeated, pulling away from Will so that their only point of contact was Hannibal’s fingers holding onto Will’s collar. 

“Please,” Will whined, and Hannibal was too far gone to resist the plea. 

He took in the scene: the reddish purple marks on Will’s neck that clearly showed teeth indentations, the tent in Will’s loose jeans, his barely-visible tail, Hannibal’s hand on his collar, and the ears. Hannibal knew what he wanted. 

“Down on your knees,” he commanded, letting go of Will’s collar. 

For a moment Hannibal was afraid it was too much, that he’d shown too much, because at first Will didn’t move. But when he did, Will dropped to the soft ground with a certainty that made Hannibal’s breath hitch. 

“Good,” Hannibal said, as he put a hand on Will’s head to that one of the fake ears was nestled in the juncture between his forefinger and thumb. “Good boy.”

Will looked up at Hannibal. “That,” he said softly. “Do...do more of that.”

Not the most specific directions, but infinitely more informative than a bark. “Good dog. Good boy,” Hannibal repeated, digging his fingers into Will’s scalp, feeling the softness of his hair and how it contrasted the coarse hair on the fake ears. Gently, Hannibal tugged on Will’s head, pulling it towards his crotch. “Do you know what I want you to do?” 

Will nodded. 

“Do you know how to do it?”

Will nodded again. 

A flash of jealousy surged through Hannibal, and he pulled on Will’s hair. The idea of Will doing this for anyone else, Will kneeling in front of anyone else, was unacceptable. “Who?” He had to know. 

“N-no one,” Will replied, looking up at Hannibal but not pulling away from his grip. “I just watch a lot of porn.”

Hannibal loosened his grip. “That answer is acceptable.”

That seemed to relax Will. He looked down, back at the bulge in Hannibal’s dress pants, and tentatively reached up undo them. Hannibal tried to steady his breathing, stroking the space behind Will’s fake ear to ground himself. It was almost too perfect. 

The pants fell to the ground in a swish of fabric, and Will wasted no time nosing against Hannibal’s clothed erection, licking the fabric, until Hannibal tugged Will’s hair again sharply. 

“Don’t waste time,” Hannibal instructed. He could feel his control waning. And when Will looked up again, expression a sort of sad fear that Hannibal didn’t quite know how to read, he added, “there will be time later. But not now.”

Whatever the emotion had been, it left Will’s face as soon as Hannibal said that. Will did not reply, but instead concentrated on pulling Hannibal’s boxer briefs down just enough to free his cock. The touches were indelicate, but Hannibal found himself reacting to them regardless. No one else had ever touched him this way. 

No one else had wrapped their lips around the tip of his cock either, and from the way Will did it, Hannibal doubted he would ever want anyone else to. “Yes,” Hannibal said, the word breaking down into a quiet moan. “Good boy.” 

The praise seemed to encourage Will, who moved his mouth farther down the shaft, taking more of Hannibal in his mouth. Hannibal put his other hand on the back of Will’s head, bracing his hands on the back of Will’s skull right behind those ears. 

Will had one of his own hands wrapped around the base of Hannibal’s cock, and the other around Hannibal’s bare calf. And it felt sublime, different from killing but equally as arousing. But Hannibal needed more. Without asking, he thrust his hips forward, gripping Will’s hair tightly so that he could not move his head back. 

Will tightened his grip on Hannibal's thigh and groaned around his cock. 

“You look so good like this,” Hannibal said, thrusting again into the soft heat of Will’s mouth. “What a good pet. Beautiful. And your mouth--” he wanted to say more, but the newness of the situation with the way Will had closed his eyes and kept his mouth open for Hannibal to use, to fuck as he pleased, made it hard to think, much less talk. 

“Will,” Hannibal moaned, as he felt his release approaching. But he didn’t want to tell Will. No, he wanted to force Will to take it all, to swallow him down so that Hannibal could claim even more of his body, because Will was _his_.

That was the thought that pushed Hannibal over the edge, coming down Will’s throat harder than he ever had alone. He let go of Will’s hair, took a deep breath, and took his cock out of Will’s mouth. Only after he had put himself back in his boxer briefs and pulled his pants back up did he think to ask Will, “did you?”

Hannibal looked down at Will’s crotch. One of Will’s hands hovered in front of it, and Will nodded. 

“Yeah. Was that okay?”

Hannibal offered Will a hand to help him up, which Will took, and when he was standing Hannibal wrapped his arms around Will in a possessive hug. “More than okay,” he replied, and Will gave a content huff before nuzzling into Hannibal’s neck. 

He stroked the back of Will’s head slowly, praise for a good performance. Positive reinforcement. 

When they finally pulled apart, Will asked, “so are we, you know, dating now or something?”

The question made his fantasies of Will play through his mind like a movie montage: walking Will around with his collar and a leash, feeding Will from his hand or even a bowl, tying Will down to claim the rest of him, Will watching him kill, Will _helping_ him kill. 

_Or something_ indeed.

“Yes,” Hannibal replied, wondering if Will would be smiling that much if he knew exactly what that encompassed. “You’re mine.”


End file.
